#!card

Fifty-eight years ago, he's held in loving arms for the very first time. "Carter," she says through the infant's tears and sobs of melancholy-joy she can't quite hold back. "I'm going to call you Carter." 

Fifty-five years ago and he pronounces it wrong from day one, so everyone he knows calls him 'Card'. 

Forty-nine years ago, he tackles another boy to the sand. "Gotcha," Carter breathes. 

Forty years ago, the other boy tackles Carter to his bed and leaves him breathless. 

Thirty-seven years ago, there's a ceremony held-- it's not real, but it doesn't matter. They love each other and that's the thing, that's the thing, all that matters and Card's mother watches from six feet under, wishes she could've seen her boy grow up but he's strong and smarter than most and he'll do just fine. 

Thirty years ago and they're still knocking air from the other's lungs, dirt and bed springs and gunpowder and it's not a marriage in any traditional sense, but Card doubts a certificate would make either of 'em any more fulfilled. "I love you," Carter murmurs through a smile, thick fingers tangled in red hair. 

Twenty-seven years ago, Card slides fingers through red, too much red, red and red and red and Locke won't stop bleeding, chokes on it and Card feels like he's suffocating with him. Dies with him, or at least the only part of him worth knowing does because what now, why bother when the love of his life is taken from him without thought, gunned down by nameless nobodies and Carter rips them apart, teeth and fingernails and bone and only when they beg his forgiveness does he grant them release. 

Twenty-seven years ago, he buries his husband and sets fire to their belongings-- leaves his heart amid dressers and tattered sheets because he doesn't need it any more than he needs the memories of a life they'd built together, of smiles he'd never give to anyone ever again or of kisses he'd never again wake to. 

Nineteen years ago and he still hears the voice in his ear, feels Locke against his side when he sleeps and he wakes up shaking and heaving, breaks his knuckles against any-everything he can find until the ghost leaves him in peace.

Six years ago and he's ancient, by today's standards. "Too old fer this shit," slides the revolver back into his belt, boot heel dug into the thief's throat. 

One hour ago and the world goes black, goes black and white, pinstripes and this is it, he thinks, and goes to sleep, goes to be with Locke, with his mother and with all the friends he's watched grow old and die or die too young and it's about goddamn time.

Now, and Card wakes up.